This is what the penumbra said to the shadow:
“You were just moving but now you have stopped.
I’ve seen you in many shapes – a crow, a paddle –
which are wont to disappear when the sun has dropped.
How is it you vanish without a trace?”
Replied the shadow to the eager penumbra:
“Not just in the realm of the seen do I have place.
On being’s metaphorical tundra,
which some two-legged creatures call the memory,
I abide as a customs officer of sorts,
observing all the wealth and penury
of impressions that come from the senses’ five ports.
Behind the closed eyelids of baron, player, clown –
that is where I am when the sun goes down.
Each morning I reappear to file my reports.”
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